


Given

by learninghowtosmut



Series: Veiled [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Universe, Gen, Kid Fic, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-14 09:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13004745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learninghowtosmut/pseuds/learninghowtosmut
Summary: Going right back to where it all began, the point in (alternate) history in which the Ottoman Empire gained control of little Italy Romano, ft. a Very Angry Child.





	1. Chapter 1

The sun’s first rays strike against the stone walls and flash in the determined face of a small child striding through the corridors. Romano is on his way to fulfil the first and most important of his daily duties that he will allow nobody else to do: waking the idiot Spain. In recent months, he’s made himself be more careful than before - he’s been coming home with more injuries than usual. It doesn’t bother Romano, not really; for all he knows, he’d gained them tripping over himself on the way to market, the clumsy idiot. He knows there’s been some fighting on, but whenever he comes close to grown-ups talking about it, they always fall quiet until he’s gone away, so it can’t be that bad. If it was  _ bad _ , someone would tell him, so it must be just normal skirmishes. Maybe he’s just had some bad luck against that bastard England. Spain always says some very fun words when talking about him, and promises Romano honey cakes and sweet pastries if he swears never to repeat them.

Romano finds ways to get him to talk about England  _ a lot _ .

He heaves open the bedroom door and goes into his bedroom, getting ready for his usual dive onto the sleeping Spain’s stomach, and then at the last second changes tactic. And no, it has nothing to do with the tanline still on Spain’s face from that eyepatch. It’s not like he  _ worries _ over him or anything. He’s a grown-up; he can take care of himself.

He jumps up onto the bed and sits on his usual landing spot, this time trying to shake him awake without touching the splint that is actually kind of scary for him to think about. Breaks shouldn’t take more than a few hours to heal, not for them.

“Spaaaaiiiiiin! Wake up! I’m hungry! Feed me!” he demands loudly, stamping his feet against the mattress. 

Spain instinctively moves to protect his stomach at that loud voice, blinking his eyes open when it settles into his brain that he is  _ not  _ having the breath knocked out of him by a flying bratty henchman. What a strange turn of events! But he’s not complaining about it, in case acknowledging this thoughtfulness will make Romanito go back to his usual… rougher wake-up method.

“Oof, not so loud so early, niño,” he complains. “Go on - I’ll join you in a second, si?” He has a tiring day ahead of him; after breaking his fast, he knows he’s going to have to deal with the Ottoman situation. He can’t put it off any longer. He’s just glad that he has little Roma to brighten things up a bit - his sometimes obnoxiously loud voice is a nice contrast to the anxious air filling his home.

Over breakfast, it’s easy to make him giggle and laugh. He drops food in pretend surprise and tells terrible jokes, encouraging Romano to do the same, and he knocks things over himself - although not all clumsiness is feigned. Getting used to having depth perception again is proving to be somewhat tricky, but he’s managing. 

His vaults may be emptied by wars and power struggles, but next to his little henchman’s precious laughter, all riches are worthless. Who needs gold when he’s got a rude little brat whose smiles shine brighter than jewels and whose laughter sounds richer than clinking coins? His heart is full, and that’s all that matters.

After he’s put off his talk as long as he can, he finally makes the trip to the council chamber. His king and queen and all of their advisors are waiting for him, faces serious. Their people are hungry, and the Ottoman Empire is pushing at their borders. Something has to give. Messages from both sides are travelling back and forth as fast as they can go, and negotiations are being hammered out.

Three months later, Romano’s fate is sealed. 


	2. Chapter 2

When he learns about it, he screams and kicks and cries. Anyone standing too close to him wears the imprint of his teeth and nails for a week or more. He tries to run away to a nearby village, but Spain unerringly finds him.

“ **_I won’t go!_ ** ” he screams at him, face red, hands curled up into fists, feet planted in the dirt. “ **_You can’t make me!_ ** ”

“You don’t have a choice, Romano,” Spain is  _ tired _ . Nobody in his house has been able to sleep for the three days since he was informed. They don’t have much more time until the handover; their rulers are meeting in a week to sign the treaty. All three of the Nations will be there. After it is signed, Romano will be taken away to his new life. His new home.

When Spain tries to pick him up to take him back home, he has to dodge a fist and a  _ vicious _ set of teeth. Even after the child has been hoisted up over his shoulder, tiny fists are drumming at his back and his feet and knees are taking it in turns to bruise him. The shrieks and screams hurt his ears, but he puts up with it. 

One more week, that’s all. 

He adjusts his grip to try to control those legs a little - he might not be big, but he knows how to use his body to lash out and hurt - and halfway home, he feels the tantrum stop. There is still a shrill ringing in his ears, but it looks like the child has given up for now. He still makes a mental note to up the guard. He doesn’t want to lose him closer to the signing. 

When they finally get home, he sweeps through to his room and drops him onto his bed. The child immediately scrambles under the covers to hide. He doesn’t want to hear anything from this  _ traitor _ , not after he’d finally let himself believe that this time he was going to stay. He was passed around before and given over to Spain. It took a long time for him to get over the anxiety that he’d be tossed aside again, and now, when he finally feels safe and settled somewhere,  _ this _ happens. Since running away didn’t work -  _ could _ never work, not with their ability to feel one of their kind on their own soil - he sulks instead. He withdraws and fights anyone who tries to come close. His chores are picked up by servants, not that he had many in the first place, and he spends his remaining week in Spain hiding in his room. The human servants fuss over him and spoil him. They’ve always been fond of him, and now that Romano is to be sent away to live under the care and rule of  _ foreigners _ , their attentions have reached a new height.  Nobody wants to see him leave, not even those who still bear the marks of his surprisingly sharp teeth and vicious nails.

Everyone for miles around knows when the day that they leave arrives; Romano’s furious screams echo around for miles as he fights tooth and nail to stay in the place he has come to accept as his home. His possessions have been packed away and his finest clothes are waiting, ready to have him be stuffed into them at the last possible minute. Nobody trusts him not to tear or stain them and making a good impression is paramount. Nothing anyone does can tame his moody glower, no matter how hard they try, so Spain and his monarchs just accept it. It’s not like anyone’s expecting this boy to be all smiles and laughter, anyway. Not with the situation as it is. He may be a nigh-immortal representation of a country, but he is still a child. He is still a child facing the unknown, with impending abandonment from all those he knows and those few he used to trust. 

Spain can’t deny the guilt burning in his chest, but he also knows that he can’t back out now, even if he wants to. His people have to come first. 

After tantrum after tantrum, they’ve all resigned themselves to carrying Romano around in his finery just to get him to  _ move _ . He buries his face in the shoulder of whoever’s holding him at the moment, uncaring of scratchy embroidery or stiff fabric. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to have to watch himself being signed over again. He doesn’t want to have to face the facts that nobody wants him; he’s just going to be passed around from place to place until he’s finally big and strong enough to prove that he’s worthy of his grandfather’s inheritance, that he’s worthy of his  _ name _ .

The human rulers sit. Ink and pens are brought to them. Romano scrunches his eyes shut until he starts seeing shapes and patterns behind his lids and his head hurts. Maybe, if he tries really hard, this will all be a terrible dream. He’ll wake up from the nightmare in his own room and run down the corridor to throw himself into Spain’s bed. And  _ this _ Spain, the  _ real _ Spain, won’t have sold him off. He’ll wrap his arms around him and reassure him that it wasn’t real, that it had never happened, and that he’s  _ safe _ , that he’s never going to have to leave his home.

He is moving - the woman holding him is trying to get him to stand on his own feet. He stubbornly refuses.

“I  _ won’t _ go! You can’t make me!” He finds his voice for the first time all day. It is wobbly, but no less defiant. He drops to sit on the floor in a show of stubbornness.

There is a rustle of fabric and a heavy tread. Someone  _ big _ is coming over to him. They crouch down to be at his level and laugh quietly. A heavy hand settles in his hair - but it doesn’t  _ feel  _ like it does when Spain ruffles it all up.

He blinks away the shapes and looks up. Brown eyes pierce him through a porcelain mask.

“That is where you are wrong,” Ottoman Empire whispers to him. “You’re  _ mine  _ now; I can make you do anything I want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a strong headcanon that Romano, no matter what the setting it, no matter what the AU or time period, is a very bitey child.


	3. Chapter 3

Perhaps lunging forwards to sink his teeth into the masked bastard isn’t the best idea he’s ever had, but it’s damn satisfying. Anyone who can walk up to someone else and say they  _ own _ them is someone who deserves to be bitten and have the wound fester and rot.   
  
“ _ Romano!” _ Spain scolds him, coming over to pull him away.   
  
He spits the taste of blood out of his mouth and glares unrepentantly up at him. A kick to Spain’s stomach with one well-placed heel is all it takes for him to be dropped, and he hits the ground running. The adults in the room try to stop him, but to no avail. He’s too small, too fast, too slippery for them to get hold of. This place is unfamiliar to him, but it’s not hard for him to find little nooks and crannies a small child can hide in. He knows he’s only going to be able to evade them for so long - if either Spain or Turkey lose their patience with him, it won’t be long before they find him - but he finds vicious pleasure in being as uncooperative as possible.   
  
When he’s finally tracked down, the Spanish party has long since left. Even though he denies it, Romano is hurt that Spain didn’t hang around to say goodbye.   
  
Why should he care what that jerk-bastard does? He reminds himself. He’s just like the others - only interested in him for his own gain, and passing him off to someone else when he gets bored. He should never have let himself be taken in by those idiot smiles he put on.  _ Of course _ he was going to break all those promises.   
  
Despite the guard’s armour making it a futile gesture, he kicks and hits and screams the whole way while he’s being carried to wherever Turkey awaits. His knees and fists and feet and throat are sore by the end of it, but it makes him feel better to make it plain exactly how much he hates this. If he’s suffering, so will everyone else.   
  
He is unceremoniously deposited on the floor in front of the Empire. A viciously pleased part of him notes that he’s changed his shirt - he damn well hopes the blood on the first one stains it forever. He glares up at him, face like thunder and jaw stubbornly set. He won’t be intimidated, even if he is kind of scary. He stands his ground as the adult comes closer and deepens his scowl.   
  
Turkey swoops in closer, his hand grabs the fabric at the scruff of his neck and he effortlessly lifts Romano to hold him at his own eye level.  _ “You bit me _ ,” he says, voice soft and quiet but no less dangerous. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”   
  
Romano just sticks out his tongue.    
  
“You will have one last chance to apologise.” Every word is slow and measured.   
  
“Shan’t!” He kicks at him, swinging from his hand. After a moment’s thought, he spits at him as well. It hits just above one eyehole of the mask and slowly dribbles down into his eye. Suddenly there’s nothing holding him up any more. He screams. Hitting the ground  _ hurts _ . He doesn’t stop screaming until a new jolt of pain bursts through him. He falls abruptly silent, one hand coming up to cradle his reddening cheek.    
  
“It seems Spain has been neglecting your manners.” He straightens up and looks down at him with disdain. “You have a lot of learning ahead of you.”    
  
He shuffles backwards on his bum, wanting to be anywhere but here. He is too shocked for tears to fall. All he can do is stare helplessly up at him with terror twisting inside his chest, choking him from the inside out.   
  
He remembers how his grandfather used to treat conquered territories. He never thought he’d be on this end of it.   
  
Turkey looks down at him and pushes at him with his toe. “Get up.”   
  
“ _ Make me _ ,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I do not have the time to do historical research for this and I'm sorry for all of my historical/cultural inaccuracies (not counting the glaringly obvious one)  
> Second, I actually kind of like Turkey? As he is in most fanworks, at least, and I feel bad for making him The Bad Guy in this. But hey, Roma needs to suffer


	4. Chapter 4

He fights the changes every step of the way. The clothes that are given to him are always filthy and torn by the end of each day. When they try to punish him for misbehaving by withholding food, he sneaks into the kitchen and takes what he wants - and even when they don’t, he still steals sweets that are meant to be for the Emperor’s table alone. He learns his way around the palace and delights in flouting the rules laid down to control him. He evades all attempts to punish him. Romano accepts no authority.  
  
With Spain, there was always the incentive to behave - going with him to Austria to see Veneziano; little gifts from far-off places; time playing in the villages and letting himself pretend that he was just a normal child. Here, he already knows there is nothing of the sort. He’s not even allowed to speak his own language. The moment they’d arrived here, Turkey had spread strict orders to keep him from speaking Italian. Now whenever he says anything, he has to dodge hands or feet or staffs. But he won’t let them stop him. He won’t let them _win_ .   
  
It works for a few months. He runs and hides and slips away, elusive as smoke. Nobody can catch him, and anyone who tries to lay hands on him gets a bite or a kick or a punch or a scratch for their troubles. The other nations under Ottoman control quietly support him. He’s even made a hideaway nest, high up in a roof where nobody else can find him. There, he’s hidden away all sorts of little treasures that are _his_ ; a scuffed ball made out brightly-dyed leather; a bead of Venetian glass which he holds close when he’s lonely; small toys and trinkets he’s acquired one way or another. There’s even a makeshift bed so he has a safe place to sleep, rather than finding a new hiding place every night. He’s going to run away, he knows it. Just as soon as he can find a way to a port. He knows water, he knows boats. He can sail _home_ , to his real home, the place that feels _right_ when he sets foot on it. And on his own land, he’ll be able to avoid any others of their kind who search for him. Maybe his people and his land will be under Ottoman rule, but that doesn’t mean that he as a person has to be! Maybe he could even find people who want to break off and be _free_ , be his own country and answering to nobody.   
  
And then Turkey loses his patience. He has had enough of this. Furious screams echo for miles; it took more men than any of them would care to admit to track him down and catch him. A sturdy cuff is attached to his wrist, with a long chain on it so he can’t run away this time. Whenever he drags his feet or drops to sit on the floor, it’s jerked and he is pulled helplessly along.   
  
Some of the men around him seem uncomfortable. They give him pitying looks every time he yelps.   
  
He scowls at them.   
  
Some of them smirk. Most of _those_ ones have bright red raised lines down their faces from where they got too close to him. Or bleeding hands with the imprint of his teeth. Or bruised shins or aching stomachs. So far as Romano had been concerned, they were all fair game to attack.   
  
When he is finally in front of _that bastard_ , he tries to exude defiance. Considering what happened when he last spat at him, he settles for sticking out his tongue and making an obnoxiously rude raspberry. He’s scared, yes, but his anger eclipses his fear.   
  
“You seem to be under the impression that I shall not hurt you. I am not the forgiving fool that Spain is.”   
  
“Non capisco,” he says. “Mi parla in Italiano!” Romano closes his eyes tightly against the slap. A few tears squeeze out of his eyes, but he makes himself stand as tall as his little frame can.   
  
If he can stand strong through this, maybe he’ll be dismissed as too much work. He can be shipped off somewhere else, or passed on to the next bastard who wants a piece of Rome’s inheritance. Deep down, his greatest hope is that he will be cast aside to form his own country. If he makes himself difficult enough, maybe he can dissuade everyone else from trying to own him. He can become strong and powerful on his own - prove himself worthy of carrying the heavy legacy of the greatest empire in history.

It’s a thin hope, he knows, and a foolish one. But he clings to it.

Turkey is speaking again, but he ignores him. He turns his face away to inspect the room, slouching where he stands and turning his shoulders to follow whatever caught his interest.

The links of the chain clink and jingle against one another, the only warning he gets before his world goes flying and he falls down at _his_ feet in a messy heap.

By the end of it, he has had his first real taste of discipline and, although the pain fades quickly, the memory of it does not. The cuff stays firmly attached to his wrist to keep him from wandering off again, according to _that bastard_ , and now he’s never allowed to be alone. It doesn’t take long for him to give in and stop speaking Italian - around _them_ , at least - and he pretends to go along with the ‘manners lessons’. It’s better than going through those punishments.

At night, he curls up in his bed and whispers to himself, letting his tongue curl around the shapes of comforting syllables that speak of his home and his people and his history. He fantasises about Nonno forcing his way from the afterlife to beat up Turkey and force him to set him free. Nobody else can be trusted not to let him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone says anything, the cuff is like toddler reins, only they've not been invented so they're improvising  
> Edit: fixed a mistake in the Italian, it's been a while since I've had to use it


	5. Chapter 5

When his body finally hits puberty, it’s clear that he’s going to mature as a real beauty, or so says  _ that bastard _ . He’s sent to a different part of the household. There are noticeably more women here, and they teach him new things. Different things. Instead of being tasked with cleaning things, or fetching and carrying, he is taught to play music and to dance. At first, he resists, but these women… it’s not their fault he’s here. He’s been going along with all of this for over a decade, now, and it’s just  _ easier _ to go with it.  _ They  _ don’t deserve his anger.

He stays as an awkwardly proportioned, coltish boy for a long time, but he is acutely aware of  _ that bastard’s _ assessing eye every time he visits. The first time, his shoulders tense upon seeing that bone-white mask, and all of his sullen stubbornness and smouldering anger comes to the fore. Then, as the months and years pass, he slowly relaxes; all  _ that bastard  _ does is look, judge from a distance, and then move on to another room.

Of course it can’t last.

Romano is sitting on the floor in the middle of a music lesson when he comes in. He shifts his back to face him and ignores him. Doesn’t give him the pleasure of a reaction and instead focuses on plucking at the strings before him. Sometimes he plays the pieces he’s instructed to, but most of the time he reconstructs half-remembered tunes from long, long ago, back when his  _ bulla _ hung from his neck and the strong arms of his grandfather protected him from the world.

He remembers them. He remembers their faces. The germanic men and women with shorn heads and cold iron around their necks. Once proud heads hung low. He didn’t understand, back then, why they had always seemed so angry. He does now.

The discordant notes from under his hands jar him out of his thoughts.

_ This is better _ , he reminds himself. Rome would never have punished him so mildly. He remembers how long it took for one conquered land to “earn back” his tongue. Rome had always favoured punishment stamped on the body. 

No, Romano hasn’t been branded or suffered the Promethean tortures that his grandfather used to be so fond of. Things could be worse.

He jumps, eliciting another unpleasant clash of notes, when a hand touches his shoulder. He’s  _ wanted _ . He’s being called over. What could he want with him? He’s not caused any big problems lately, he’s obeyed  _ most _ of the orders given to him, he’s stopped dropping Latin and Italian (and occasionally Spanish) profanity when he’s startled or things don’t go his way. There is nothing that he’s done that could be of any reproach.

_ And it’s best to keep it that way _ , a little voice in his head reminds him. He reluctantly gets to his feet, toes scrunching nervously into the rug beneath him. “What does he want?” He keeps his voice low, but can’t keep out the undertone of irritation. He neither expects nor receives an answer.

The last thing he expects is to be calmly examined like - like a  _ horse _ that is going to be bought. Oh, he’s spared the invasive poking and prodding, but he’s being expected to stand like he’s posing for a statue or an anatomical painting! Part of him wishes he was young enough again to have biting as a valid option. As it is, the second someone touches him, he lashes out with a sharp punch.

He might be bending, but he’s not broken yet.

The beating afterwards is only to be expected and he takes it with bitter silence, fantasising the whole time about taking that mask and shattering it beneath his foot. He imagines with great satisfaction turning the nose it rests on into a bloody pulp beneath his heel and suddenly he finds that the pain isn’t so bad. It’s not like it won’t be healed in an hour or so, anyway. He can take it.

What’s harder is having his food taken away for two days. By the first evening, it’s getting hard for him to concentrate. He doesn’t sleep at all, the pains from his empty stomach biting at him every time he closes his eyes, and he knows that he’s going to have a harder time lashing out again. It’s something he’s been slowly becoming aware of, this gradual chipping away of his defiance.

When his enforced fast is over, he can barely  _ think  _ thanks to the hunger gnawing away at his stomach. Just because he doesn’t technically  _ need _ food doesn’t mean it’s pleasant for him to go without. He thinks his body might be about to have another spurt of maturity; he’s been hungrier than usual these past few months. The scent of the meal he’ll be sharing with the others is in the air. The once-strange spices have become familiar, even homely. He’s having visions; hot chicken with the juices dripping out from beneath crispy skin; rich, buttery eggs with sweet vegetables on the side; fried strips of aubergine and peppers on a bed of pilav. Unwillingly, his mind turns back to memories of paella and sweet, juicy tomatoes off the vine that burst in his mouth.

When he’s summoned away without seeing so much as a grain of couscous, he feel like he might sob from starved frustration. He’s hungry, he’s tired, he’s nearing the end of a frayed cord tethering him to his once immovable stubborn defiance. How much might it take for him to snap? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. 

The first thing he notices is the  _ smell _ . It’s heavenly torture. There is a low table before him, loaded with food. He freezes in the doorway and lets his eyes devour it. There are dates and dried fruits crusted with their own sticky sweetness. A pot of honey glows gold in the light next to a selection of breads. Eggs glisten through the steam of a teapot.

He’s had so much tea in the past two days, trying to fill his stomach with  _ something _ . It was hot and it satisfied for a minute or two before the relentless hunger struck again. He doesn’t resent any of the others for not helping him. He knows that all it would have done was get them the same punishment and their bodies aren’t as sturdy as his own.

“Romano.” 

He feels those eyes flick up and down his body. He knows they see his weakness. Sapped of his usual strength, he can no longer keep every flicker of emotion from showing on his face. He is exposed to those eyes which glint behind the mask. He doesn’t know how to read them, he doesn’t know which smiles are lies, or when his eyebrows are pulled down with a frown or a scowl. There is nothing but blank, featureless white.

“You shall serve me today.”

He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to stay upright if he doesn’t get food  _ now _ . If he makes a mistake in this, what is there to prevent  _ that bastard _ from stretching this out more? What if he restricts his water or makes him work under the blistering sun? Or both?

The bastard laughs at him and at the desperation that is plain to anyone who cares to glance at him.

“Pour my tea,” he orders, not even looking at him any more.

He watches him eat a little bit of everything that’s been put in front of him, seemingly ignoring Romano except to give orders. With the apparently lack of scrutiny - or even interest - he lets himself relax slightly and hungrily stares at the loaded table. He imagines what it would feel like to bite down on a slice of bread and feel the crust crunch between his teeth. He imagines the chewy texture of dried fruits and licking the sweet crumbs of crystallised juices from his lips. He imagines the rich flavour of egg spreading over his tongue and the relief of finally,  _ finally _ having something  _ solid _ in his stomach.

A half-eaten slice of bread dripping with honey is waved under his nose. His eyes follow it hungrily despite his disgust at the thought of eating someone else’s leavings. 

“If you don’t want it, I’m sure you can wait until midday,” he says calmly.

Romano bites his lip hard, tastes blood for the few seconds it takes to heal. He knows he can’t turn it down, not after having all of this in temptation’s reach. His hands clench and unclench by his sides. Eventually, he reaches to take it. 

“ _ Hey!” _ He can’t help the pathetic whine that comes out at the  _ unfairness _ when it’s snatched away from his fingers. Weak and tired and hungry, he feels like he might be about to cry. This - he feels so  _ vulnerable _ without all the walls he’s built up, without the emotionless mask he’s constructed over the decades. 

_ No, I can’t give him the satisfaction _ . 

He blinks his eyes dry and deliberately doesn’t look at  _ that utter bastard’s _ face. He ignores the cruel chuckles at his frustration.

“You think I would let your dirty fingers touch my food? You may eat here, but…” his voice is light as it trails off. 

Romano takes a sharp breath. He feels the burn of humiliation in his chest. So this is it? He wants to make a fawning lapdog of him?

The food is tempting, but his pride is stronger. He swallows sharply and lifts his head with a new resolve. No, he won’t break. Not over this. He can make himself wait a few more hours, even if just the thought of it is enough to make the room spin. His shoulders push back stubbornly and he tells himself he can  _ beat _ him.

More images of that bone-white mask shattering into tiny pieces flit satisfyingly through his mind as he forces himself to walk without wobbling or swaying, eyes fixed high on some ornate decoration.

“Is there anything else you want?” No polite words, no formal pronoun; he talks to him as if they’re of equal status. The food still tempts him, but he tells himself he can be stronger than that. Sheer stubbornness gives him strength and he won’t give in, not for the whole unhurried meal.

Even though he feels like fainting, having had to wait even longer for the midday meal, the food tastes all the better for not having given in.


	6. Chapter 6

He may have stood firm that time, but he knows that  _ he  _ saw how close he was to breaking. Over the next couple of years, he has the same punishment over increasingly small things until he’s spending more time on enforced fasts than he isn’t. His cheeks are sharp, his ribs show, and each time it is harder for him to refuse the offer of half-eaten food from  _ that bastard’s _ hand. Still, he stubbornly persists in keeping his head high. He won’t be broken. 

Nobody knows the ongoing offer. He doesn’t breathe a word of it. Even acknowledging it would feel like another step towards defeat for him. No, he refuses it. Every time a half-eaten bite is held up temptingly beneath his nose, he lifts his head, closes his eyes, and stiffens his spine. No matter how much he wants it, no matter how much every part of him is screaming at him to give in and end it now, it’s not worth it. It’s not worth bowing his head and accepting defeat in the form of a bite of food pinched between the fingers of  _ that bastard _ .

Until, suddenly, it is.

He’s been starved for a week, longer than ever before. Above all else, he’s  _ tired _ . Nobody and nothing is going to rescue him from this. He’s been here for decades already, and all that’s changed is the growth of his body.

That morning, his eyes won’t focus right. He can barely carry things around. He spills hot tea on himself without realising.

Hands - hands he knows are cruel and harsh and brutal - catch his wrists and stop him from hurting himself more. A voice carrying the undertones of impending victory comments on how  _ sickly _ he’s looking. As if it isn’t all his doing.

One hand lets go, picks up a spoon, drizzles amber honey over thick bread. The bread eats it up and greedily sucks it down until there is only a glisten on the surface. 

Romano swallows.

_ He  _ lifts it to his mouth, tears away a chunk with his teeth, chews, swallows. A smirk touches the corner of his lips.

He’s about to lift his head, to push back his shoulders, to turn his face away as always, but then he asks himself:  _ why? _

His knees are shaking.

_ Why does he do it? _

He cannot win this.

_ Why resist? _

_ He. Cannot. Win. This. _

All the breath leaves him and he sinks minutely.

The honey is strong and sickly sweet on his tongue. It sticks in his throat. The bread is thick and all but impossible to choke down. He bows his head. Humiliation burns hot behind his eyes. He still feels where those fingertips brushed against his lips. 

He’s trembling like a newborn foal, all long, gangly limbs and instinct to flee.

“There, now.”  _ That voice  _ is dripping with warm praise. “Was that so hard?” 

The hand on his wrists tugs him closer and pulls him down to sit on the floor beside him, it moves him so that he’s leaning against him and he’s so  _ weak _ that he just goes along with it. Those fingers offer a dried apricot -  _ a whole apricot _ \- to him, and what else can he do now but accept it? It goes down more easily than the bread which still feels like it’s sticking in his throat.

_ “Please,” _ he whispers in Turkish after a few more morsels. “ _ No more. _ ” He’ll throw up if he has more, he knows it. The shapes of the syllables are wrong in his mouth, they taste bad on his tongue, but any language that feels  _ right _ will just mean that  _ this  _ will start all over again. 

While Turkey finishes his breakfast, Romano is given sips from a cup of the strong tea. It makes him feel less like he’s about to choke on the ghost of that first bit of bread, but it still sits uneasily in his stomach. He’s so tired, he doesn’t even act on the faint urge to spit into the cup. He just drinks.

He doesn’t really remember anything after that clearly, but at some point he’s lifted up by a pair of strong arms - not the arms he wants, the wrong arms, they’re wrong, so wrong - and taken away from that room. Turkey doesn’t even watch; Romano faintly sees the white mask turning away as he gets up to leave the table.

He’s lowered into a soft bed in a white room and left alone, and there the self-pity and revulsion and humiliation can finally be sobbed out. He muffles his face with the pillow and mourns his dignity and pride. 

The room becomes intimately familiar over the next month. They don’t allow him out until he looks more alive. Every day,  _ he _ comes. He takes Romano’s jaw and uses it to turn his head like a doll’s, he lifts his loose shirt and checks his ribs and collarbones, runs a finger over the bones that seem less and less raised as each day passes. 

He closes his eyes, lets it happen, swallows down the bitter lump in his throat.

Of course, there is the ongoing daily humiliation of the shared meal. He is capable of sitting and feeding himself, but  _ he _ insists on having him stay lying down in the bed, propped up on a slight incline with pillows, and passively taking what he offers. When he tries to sit up, there is a heavy hand on his shoulder pushing him back down. 

It’s made easier by the praise and the gentle words that drip from his lips when he does give in. It’s been so long since anyone has looked after him. Everyone has been giving him a wide berth from the start of the starvation punishments. They don’t want whatever he’s done to reflect on them, and he doesn’t blame them. Now that he’s been allowed to  _ not be hungry _ , now that he’s been shown some twisted form of kindness, he doesn’t know if he could stand out long against it again.

So he closes his eyes. He accepts defeat. He chews and swallows without a word. Disgusting warmth glows inside him with each crumb of praise.

Then, when he’s alone again, he rolls over and muffles his face in a pillow, burning with self-loathing and shame.

His body recovers faster than any human’s could. A couple of months later, when the harsh lines have softened, he’s allowed back to join the rest of them again as if nothing had ever happened. Before he leaves the sickroom he’s given a pile of clean, new clothes. The fabric is softer than what he’s been wearing so far and it feels  _ nice _ under his fingers. There’s one piece left after he’s fully dressed and, at first, he doesn’t understand what it is. It’s just a sheer length of plain fabric lying on the bed without explanation or any hint of what he’s supposed to do with it.

Then he realises. He feels sick.

He  _ won’t  _ do it.

He  _ won’t  _ put it on.

He turns away to push through the door and go back to where he had, for a brief time, been able to forget what a nightmare everything is. As he moves, he can feel how loose the waistband is around his hips. The fragility of his thin wrists jumps out at him. Remembered desperation plucks at his stomach. He stops. Frustration and futile rage bubble up inside him. It’s hopeless to fight. There’s no point in it. He’s powerless. 

Romano punches the wall.

He turns around, jaw tight. He hates himself for every move he makes.

He returns to the bed.

He puts on the veil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks to everyone who's left a comment! I'll be getting right to replying to them as soon as I have the time!  
> Hope everyone had a good festive few days and liked this chapter despite (or because of?) the pain i have gleefully inflicted on you


	7. Chapter 7

More decades pass. Since giving in, they pass more comfortably than they had before. He entertains and plays music and pushes down the lump of disgust in his throat whenever it rises up to choke him.    
  
_ It could be worse, it could be worse, it could be worse _ , he reminds himself almost every day. He moves with grace and learns to fake a hidden smile. Every time, it comes more easily. The veil goes from being stifling to being a comfort as he finally accepts that there is nothing he can do to change this. Survival, rather than escape, is what he works towards. He knows he can’t  _ die _ , but he also knows that he could lose himself, that everything could slowly chip away at him until there is nothing more than a vapid, blank dancer where he had once been.

The bead of Venetian glass still lies hidden under his pillow. On the nights where everything feels like it’s going to crash over him, he slips his hand underneath to hold it tight. It holds him like an anchor. There are times when he swears he hears the waves lapping against the old stone that his feet used to run down, dodging out of the way of various people going about their lives.    
  
With time, he learns how to hide himself, how to push this beautiful persona to the fore and to shelter himself behind it all. The veil helps, it becomes his shield against the world. All these people who devour him with their eyes, who grab for him and whisper  _ things _ into his ear, they’re not touching him, not the real him. The true Romano only ever ventures out in a dark room when he is alone and all the veils and fine clothes and seductive mannerisms have been folded up and put away until morning. He lies in the soft bed and hums fragments of songs and mouths the phrases of  _ home _ to himself. The rich tones of his home roll quietly around his mouth as he asks himself about the catch of fish, about how the harvest was, about when the ships will be coming in. He reminds himself that he’d promised that one day, he’d have a ship of his own and take it out on the waves. He tries to remember how it had felt, he tries to ground himself in the memories of his senses, but he slowly learns that he’s forgotten what the salt spray smelled like, or how it felt to swim in the sparkling waters off of Etna, or how cannoli tasted and snapped into pieces in his mouth. The resolve stiffens to remember and hold everything he can in his memory, to jealously guard what is left of his core. He won’t allow himself to be defeated any more than he already has been. He’s been bending and bending and bending for so long, now. This little core of defiance is all that he has left.   
  
He is  _ Italian _ , damn it, and he’s going to keep it that way. No matter how hard  _ that bastard _ tries, he can’t wipe away what was already there. This slate will never go blank.   
  
The moulding of his persona continues. With the veil, more things are expected of him. He realises that he’s not going to be able to avoid it forever. All of these little lessons are adding up - he’s going to have to sleep with someone sooner or later. Wouldn’t it be better, he reasons, to take control of that? To be in control of what little he can be and choose when, where, and who with?

The next time someone who doesn’t make his skin crawl tries to touch him, he lets it happen. He hides behind the veils and allows himself to be pursued. Romano locks himself away and brings out to the fore the person they’ve all been teaching him to be. He dances and invites them all to look at him, to  _ want  _ him. He is beautiful and graceful and desirable. His eyes are mysterious with smoky kohl and the discs on his clothes shimmer and chime with every move he makes. 

It’s easier, when it happens, to tell himself he chose this.

He repeats that to himself, over and over again.

_ I chose this _ .

It doesn’t make him feel any less dirty in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap for Given! I do have the third section of the story yet to come, so it's not ending here!  
> With this chapter, I've been asking myself if I should up the rating to M - even though I've not actually explicitly stated anything, there are some mature themes in this and I'd rather not have people coming across something they're not expecting. If anyone has any suggestions, ideas, or tags you think should be added to warn people, let me know? 
> 
> Thank you so much to my star commenters ArtlessComedic, Hannifluff, and Beyond_the_stars for all the motivation you've given me with your kind words! And to everyone else who's been reading this and leaving your thoughts for me! If it weren't for all of you guys, this probably wouldn't have been written, and it certainly wouldn't have got this far! I treasure each and every comment I get, so even if your name isn't up with the 3 I see the most, you've still made a real difference.


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